


What I've Done

by mkane3



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Drama, Established Zevran Arainai/Warden, Flashbacks, Internalized Homophobia, Life is Hard for Gay Magic Elves, M/M, Major Original Character(s), Mild Sexual Content, Origin Story, Original Character Death(s), actual homophobic templar, more tags to come
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-27
Updated: 2016-12-01
Packaged: 2018-09-02 18:28:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8678548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mkane3/pseuds/mkane3
Summary: A series of flashbacks that tell the origin story of Alim Surana, the tiny, gay, magic, elvish Hero of Ferelden, and how some of his choices lead to some pretty devastating consequences.  So, really it's basically a fluff piece.





	1. Milene and Tasha

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so excited to share this project, I've been working on it for such a long, long time, i mean, my god, finally I'm uploading. I did beta it by myself though, so if there's anything ridiculously wrong and incomprehensible don't hesitate to let me know!! Thanks so much for reading, y'all! xoxo
> 
> Title obviously from Linkin Park, duh.

It might have been a tolerable place to live had it not been for the stinking piles of refuse that were as ubiquitous as they were unpleasant; to even a hardened nose, the gloomy, stone-tiled Alienage was repulsive.  As little Alim walked, face scrunched in displeasure, he cupped a hand over his mouth and nose to filter out some of the stench.  It was slow going.  The streets were always congested in the evening, and people always seem to get pushier as the light fades.  Alim maneuvered his way into the center of the herd.  He'd learned that straying too close to the rickety huts lining the road meant facing the falling heaps of waste, flung from the windows of the second and third stories.   He heard the sickening plop of sewage on a nearby pedestrian, and reminded himself that ~maybe~ he didn't mind being battered by the masses.  He was almost there anyhow, and wouldn't have to suffer the spoiled and sickly air for much longer.  Flowing streams of urine and wine mixed and trickled down the cracked, cobbled roads, but Alim nimbly stepped over them. His mum had taught him that, "The world abhors a dirty boy," she would say as she licked her thumb and scrubbed his smudgy face.

When he reached the vhenadahl, the Tree of the People, Alim kicked off his leather sandals and began to climb. Though he was skinny, he was a tenacious little boy, and agile too.  Determination furrowed his brow as he grasped with his toes, and launched himself from one foothold to the next.  Each lurching movement was more burdened than the last.  Hunger gripped his stomach, and he vaguely remembered that he hadn't eaten today. 

Reluctantly, Alim yielded to the fatigue in his muscles, stopping for a moment as he clung to the side of the great tree.  He tried to breathe deeply, but nearly gagged as a particularly foul stench wafted by.   _Better not drag this out..._ He thought.  A few moments of clutching, struggling, and grunting later, and Alim managed to pull himself onto a low and thick branch. As he gripped his perch tightly, he tasted, rather than glimpsed, the great, corrupted nest of the Denerim Alienage. Swarms of buzzing elves pushed past each other through the narrow alleys, spindly webs of ragged clothes hung from lines between the squalid shacks, and the scattered glittering shells of the City Guardsmen sparkled under the setting sun.  It was a hive of starvation, waste, and misery, but it was the only home Alim had ever known.

Alim swallowed.  He had climbed far higher than his mother would ever allow, and his stomach clenched as he looked down toward the distant ground. With clumsy, nervous movements, he began to shimmy along the thick branch toward the leaves, glowing like little emeralds in the slanted sunlight and sour breeze.  As he drew nearer, he sat up, and pulled from his pocket a small, cloth sack. Handful by handful, he ripped the leaves from their stems, and crammed them into his bag.  It wasn't long before he'd picked his immediate area clean and necessity dared him to reach a bit further. 

 

More slowly now, more carefully, he picked each leaflet of the vhenadahl, stowing it away.  He needed more.  The vhenadahl's leaves were only fresh enough to be useful after the first rains of spring.  If he hesitated now, and later found he did not have enough, it might be too late to harvest any more.  He creeped out a little further, his branch now bare as winter, and his sack gorged with leaves.   _Just a few more..._

His tongue poked out from behind his lips as he focused.  Reaching, fingers outstretched, arms and back lengthening as much as possible, legs loosening their grip to allow for the full extension of his body, almost, almost there, almo--"AGH!" He yelped as the arm of the tree splintered beneath him, throwing his weight forward as it began to snap.  Instinctively, one hand flew to the bag, cinching it in a tight fist; the other clamped down on his perch.  In a matter of moments, the branch of the tree had almost completely split, and was hanging vertically by just a few fibers of wood.  Alim, adrenaline surging through him, dangled helplessly by one arm.  He could do nothing but look on, horrified, as the last few threads of wood stretched and broke.

 

Seconds later, he fell into darkness.

The first sensation he noticed was a splitting headache that ripped across the back and side of his head, each beat of his heart precipitating another throb painful enough to split his vision. The second, a misty spray dusting his face.  He had been propped up on the side of the vhenadahl, where two streams of hot urine beat against the weathered bark on either side of his face, running down his shoulders and back. Alim hung his head between his knees as he swallowed back the nausea.

"Oy, no fair!  He's movin'!"  One of the men barked.

"Oh bloody--Put ya head back!  We're tryna' see ‘ow close we can get wiffout splashing ya." The other said gleefully.  They both chuckled. 

Revulsion made him crawl forward between the men, eliciting a chorus of derisive groans and wails and curses. _Charming_. Tenderly, he lay a hand on his head and felt a hard, swollen lump the size of his palm.  His torso was bare, he noticed.   The linen tunic he had been wearing nowhere to be found.  Stolen, most likely. As he tentatively moved to stand, in the corner of his eye he saw--was it?--Yes!  His pouch was haphazardly strewn over one of the exposed roots.  A small relief, but nonetheless his heart swelled at seeing that only a few of the leaves had scattered with the breeze.  What about his shoes?  He scanned the area, but he knew that they must be gone by now.  There was plenty of time to think of an excuse to tell Mum.  He still had all night before she'd be back from work in the morning.  In the meantime, he had to get home, for the sun was sinking beneath the horizon, and with it went the safety of daylight. 

 

Alim desperately wanted to run, to dart as quickly as possible through the streets and be home before darkness fell.  But fear was for children, and he was almost a grown elf now.  Arresting the impulse, he kept a steady pace, regretting more and more with each step that he had gone alone. 

 

He tried to focus on the sunset to calm him, as he often did at home.  He had painted it many times before, but with a ~very~ limited supply and variety of colors and tools, he never could capture the feeling of boundless opportunity and hope that he saw outside his tiny kitchen window.   Today had been a very hot day, and hot days always led to beautiful sunsets, as though the relenting sun gave the sky reason for special celebration. The cyan blended with orange, stripes of pink running the length of gold, leaping over clouds flecked with lavender and turquoise.

 It was all so impermanent, so fleeting.  Pools of color perpetually flowing together and then apart, rays of light crashing into clouds, fractured into a million bits, only to reform a moment later.  All the while, the pernicious indigo of night coaxed the colors' chaotic dance into a fitful sleep, their dreams speckling the growing dark with stars.   Perhaps, Alim wondered as he walked, it was impossible to capture such an infinite feeling from behind the towering walls of the Alienage.  How could he possibly hope to represent it through his art, when he had never felt it?  How could he understand it, when he had never known it?  The Alienage was a sort of perennial darkness, a world devoid of color except the bone white of the walls bleached by the moon. 

The streets had almost emptied by the time Alim turned the corner onto his alley.  Flickering street lamps seemed to throw more shadows than they dispelled, and in the suffocating darkness he swore he saw movement.

 Midstep, he froze.  His breath caught in his throat.  A whisper from behind.   He whipped around, his eyes boring into the impenetrable blackness. His entire body tense, Alim struggled to calm himself. 

"H-hello?"  He called out.  Seconds went by.  He remembered how naked he was: bare-chested, unarmed and alone.  It was so dark out, and he was so vulnerable. 

A coquettish giggle echoed around him. 

 

"Show yourself!" He clenched his hands into fists. 

 

"Tsk, tsk" a voice tutted.  "Where are your manners, little one?"  He saw the speaker, slender and tall, just outside the light of the lamp under which Alim stood.  The figure stepped forward, pulling her hood back and letting long, greasy locks of wavy, brown hair fall to her shoulders.  An eye patch covered one eye, and her face was caked in dirt. 

"If you touch me I'll scream," Alim threatened. 

"Such bravery." Her voice was drawling and deep.  "What's a knife-ear like you doin' out this time o' night anyway?"  She asked lazily.  She examined the crusty, yellowed nail beds of one hand, while the other rested on her hip. 

"Don't call me that."  His heart pounded in his ears.  She frightened him, he couldn't lie, but Alim wasn't known for being a coward. 

"Don't be ashamed of what you are, _knife-ear_ ," she emphasized the slur.  "Besides, you’re not just a knife-ear, are you, little one? Not so often we see a dark-skinned elf."  Her visible eye lit up, though she still didn't look at him.  "You look like you could use a bit o' money, what say you come with me for a chat?" 

"I'm not going anywhere with you." 

She raised an eyebrow.  "Oh?  And what if I told you that I only asked your opinion as a courtesy?" 

"My father is--" he swallowed.  "He's a great swordsman.  If you leave now I promise I won't send him after you." 

"Liar." She leaned back against a stack of crates  "I know exactly who you are, knife-ear."  She finally turned her face toward him, peering at him with her dark eye.  "Your father may have been a swordsman, but the only thing you've got to show for it is the pile of silver he paid your whore-mother--" 

"My mother is no whore."  He dug his nails into his palms. 

"Ha,” she scoffed. It was cold, hard, contemptuous. “Don't make me laugh."  

"She's not!"  Fury surged within him.  Countless insults, ceaseless teasing, fights with other boys...it wasn't the first time he'd had to defend his mother. 

The woman searched his stony face.  "Oh no, don't tell me--you're serious? You didn't know!?" She licked her lips.  "Now _that_ is rich."  She chewed the words, rolling them around on her thick tongue before letting them fall out. 

"Shut up--" 

"Did you really not know what your mother has to do to put those measly scraps of food on the table?" 

"What would you know, anyway? My mother cleans the houses of noble lords--" 

"Did you never wonder why you and your brother look absolutely nothing alike? Never thought it was strange that she only works at night?"  She plowed on, delighting in Alim's pained expression. 

"Shut your mouth!" 

She advanced, grabbing his face and holding it still with a filthy hand.  "Your mother is a whore, little boy, a filthy whore that only closes her legs when it's time to pop out another bastard child." 

Alim, as he looked into her eye, snapped. With both hands, he held her wrist as he sunk his teeth into the fleshy bit between her thumb and index finger.  She howled with pain, and with the other hand slapped him hard across the face.  Alim fell to the ground as she cradled her bleeding hand.  

"Nasty knife-ear," she hissed.  Alim didn't wait another second, he scrambled to his feet and took off at a dead sprint. 

"Stop him!" She shouted.

He hadn't run more than a few yards before, _THWIP_ , a thrown bola had twisted and tangled around his legs.  Time stood still for a moment as his momentum carried him through the air. He tried to use his arms to break the fall, but hard stone of the crumbling walkway met his wrists, and they buckled under him.  His head slammed against the ground, striking the still swollen knot from before. 

The pain was instant and intense.  His vision blurred, and he was too disoriented to try to stand.  He felt the heel of a boot on his back, grinding his bare chest into the stone.  A pair of rough hands yanked his braided hair, lifting his head.

Hissed into his ear, a second, higher-pitched female voice whispered "Your mum'll be proud when she hears you joined the family business, boy. I have a special friend who’s going to pay a pound of flesh and more for the things he wants to do to you."  She shoved his face down, crushing it against the road.  "And young too!  Nice thing about the young ones is that they heal fast." The new woman jeered. 

"Flexible too," The first woman agreed. "Well done, Tasha."  

Alim helplessly allowed his hands to be bound in coarse rope. 

"You can't do this," tears stung his eyes.  "It's not right!" He shouted.  Fear gripped him so tightly, he could hardly breathe.  "It's not right..." he said again, more to the Maker than to the women. The tears flowed freely now. 

He saw the first woman come toward him with a gag.  "No, don't," his voice broke into a sob.  "Please! Ple--" she stuffed the rag into his mouth and tied it as Alim broke down and wept.  A rough-spun sack was thrown over his head, and cinched around his neck.  He screamed into his gag, a muffled, broken noise. 

They hoisted him to his feet, and slung him over a pair of narrow shoulders. 

"You alright to get him out of the city, Milene?" Tasha said. 

"What about the guards?"  

"Paid off already.  I'm headed back to the Pearl, but I'll meet you at the house tomorrow to start his training."   Tasha said. 

"Right then."  Milene turned and, rather unceremoniously, flung the limp Alim into a cart, or a wheelbarrow of some sort.  She tossed a thick blanket over him, and pushed.  The shudder of the cart and the creaking of the wheels told Alim they were moving.  He was bound, gagged, hidden from sight, and moving in the wrong direction. 

Alim's choking sobs wracked his body, but he did not fight his restraints.   Even if he could break free he wouldn't get far. He knew the fight was over. He had lost everything. His home, his family, his future.  Nothing he could do.  Nothing.  It was over. 

“Quit your blubbering.” Milene said as she pushed the cart. “Not like I’m selling you to some Tevinter magister. You’ll have a roof over your head, food in your belly. More than most around ‘ere can say. Even make a little money if you behave--“ 

_CRACK_.  A loud grunt, and the thud of a body crumpling to the ground.  A clatter of metal bouncing against the floor.  Frantic hands pulling at the blankets, then at the sack over his head. 

Through watery eyes, Alim saw in the dim glow of a a street lamp his older brother pulling at his gag.  As the realization hit him, Alim's stomach clenched and his eyes closed as a fresh wave of tears streamed down his face. 

"Rillen!" He whimpered.  "You came for me." 

"Are you alright?" Rillen's voice was soft.  His kind blue eyes searched Alim's dark ones for signs of how badly they had hurt him. 

"I'm ok," he sniveled.  The moment Rillen had undone the rope around his wrists, he turned and threw his arms around his neck, burying his face in his shoulder. 

"I've got you, you're safe." He held Alim tight against him. "You're safe now."

Moments later, Alim's legs were freed, and he saw Milene, sprawled out, unconscious, her eye patch now drenched in dark blood.  Beside her, the metal pipe Rillen had used to club her in the head.   

"Is she...?"  Alim clutched at Rillen's sleeve. 

"Come on, no use waiting around to find out."  Rillen wrapped an arm around Alim's shoulders, and guided him gently back toward their house.

 

Alim held on to Rillen, squeezing him for dear life, wanting to sprint out of his skin till he was safely home.  The paralyzing terror seemed so close still, like he would snap back to being bound and gagged in Milene's cart if he didn't move faster.  He was with Rillen, and Rillen was tall, and strong, and confident with gorgeous light skin.  Nothing bad could happen while Rillen was here. 


	2. Rillen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alim has a bad dream.

 

Before dragging his tired limbs off to bed, Rillen scanned over Alim again in the flickering light of the fire in the small hearth. Satisfied that Alim looked basically okay, Rillen pulled him in for a long hug.

“I’m glad you’re safe, Alim. I really love you so much.” Alim allowed himself the quick pleasure of a crooked smile against Rillen’s chest. “You must be exhausted, come to bed.”

”Uh, I will. Soon. Just going to...uh, sit by the fire a while.” Alim said. Rillen, yawning, said goodnight with one final, gentle pat on Alim’s face. Alim watched him stomp sleepily off, and close the wooden door behind him. Finally. Since they were one of the few families to actually have a separate “bedroom” (more like a cranny with door), Alim took advantage of his newfound solitude to stay up by the fire and start his ~project~.  Too much had happened for him to sleep tonight anyway, and though his head and body ached, his excitement drove him onward.

Eagerly, he pulled the leaves from the bag and stuffed them into the mortar with a bit of water. With the pestle, he worked on them, grinding and smashing the leaves into a thick paste, adding more water here and there as he went.  Minutes later, he had gotten just right texture and spooned the cream onto a wooden plate in several isolated pools.  Using brown dirt and red clay and even a few of the blueberries they had left over from the market, Alim created a palette: a gorgeous spectrum of emerald, pine, olive and jade.   _Perfect._  

 

_"Tell about the Dalish elves again, Mum!"  Alim would say._

_"Again?  I told you this story last night, love.  You know it by heart.  Why don't you tell ~me~ about the Dalish?" She'd ask._

_"I don't do it right! Pleaseee."  He'd beg, pouting his lips and widening his eyes._

_She'd laugh, and put her hands on her hips.   She'd sit with him usually, sometimes he'd lay his head in her lap. "Well, we come from a Dalish clan ourselves, you know.They're very--"_

_"Strong and proud!" They said together._

_"Are you going to let me tell the story?"_

_"Yes, but don't forget to tell about the Halla!"_  

 _"How could I forget?"  Her voice would drop then, "The Halla are some of the biggest creatures in the forest!  Twice as big as a deer, with great, big horns!  Their horns are some of the most valuable things in Thedas, perfect for crafting the bows and spears the Dalish are known for." Even Rillen, who would be busy sanding down wood or cooking in the kitchen, would prick his ears up to listen to stories of the Dalish clans._

_"But the Dalish respect the Halla like friends and equals, and would never treat them like men treat their horses." Alim would mouth the words alongside his mother.  She would scratch his back, and braid his hair into rows, as her words painted a picture of lush forests and open skies, enormous feasts and the entire clan around a campfire laughing and stuffing themselves full with spiced meats and roasted vegetables.  No walls, no filth, no hunger, no rules.  You could go wherever and do whatever you like._

Alim remembered the stories as he fetched his paintbrush, a thick twig with horse hair tied on the end. Mum's birthday was coming soon, and he would give her the best present of all: the promise of freedom.  He would paint her the forest from the story, and tell her that's where he would take her one day.  Rillen could come too.  One day, when he was grown, they would all leave this place, and find a new life with the Dalish, a better life.  Until then, this painting would be their promise and their solace.  He didn't even notice the throbbing in his head as he worked. 

The fire that burned low in the hearth was nothing compared to the fire in Alim’s heart. This was the dream that sustained him, that lifted him up, that made life worth living. And with each glide of the brush on the paper, each feathering tap to create texture, and each swipe of color, Alim poured his soul out onto the canvas, bearing it for his family to see. If they could just see it the way he saw it, make it ~real~ for them, maybe his dream could be theirs too.

"What are you doing?"  Rillen had poked his head out from the bedroom.  Without realizing it, Alim had spent the entire night working.  The breaking dawn had just started to spread across the sky. 

"A painting for mum."  Alim barely took his eyes off his work to see who had spoken. 

"Where did you get those?" Rillen asked, gesturing at the small pile of leftover leaves from the vhenadahl. It wasn’t easy to find greenery in the Alienage, after all. 

Alim sensed the growing rage in Rillen, but couldn’t be bothered to head it off.  He shrugged.  "Does it matter?"  

"It matters."  Rillen's voice was venomous.  "These are from that tree, aren't they?" 

"No, I..." Alim stopped painting, but couldn't meet his eyes.  "I found them."  Under his breath, he added "...and it's called the vhenadahl." 

"By the Maker," Rillen's voice dropped.  "You're lying.  I can tell you're lying." 

"So what if I am?  Why does it matter?" He said defensively. 

"Why?  Why!?"  He began to raise his voice.  "Because you are the most utterly stupid little boy that ever lived!  ~That’s~ why." He raised his arms, threading his hands through his blonde hair.  "That's why you were out last night, isn't it? You went out at night, ~alone~..."  He was lost in his own thoughts for a moment as he paced around the room.  "You risked everything, EVERYTHING, for THESE!?" He grabbed a handful of the leaves, brandishing them in Alim's face.  "These are NOTHING, Alim!!!  They're worthless!"  He threw the leaves into the hearth. 

"Rillen, what are you doing!? I need those!" 

"For what?  For paint!?" He snatched the palette from Alim's table. 

"Rillen, stop!"  Tears filled Alim's swollen eyes. 

"I lost you, I thought I’d lost you! You could've been killed!  Or worse!"  He threw the palette into the dirt, splattering paint across the floor. 

"Rillen, no!"  Alim sobbed.  "I'm not finished!  You're ruining everything!" Despite Alim's grasping hands and thrown punches, Rillen continued on his path of destruction. He grabbed the makeshift canvas off the table. "RILLEN, NO!"  He wailed.  He jumped, arms outstretched and reaching to grab it back.  Rillen, who was much taller, held it far over his head.  Both boys were in tears now. 

Rillen raised his voice over him.  "If I hadn’t heard you shout, you would have been ~gone~, Alim!!!”  His voice began to break.  "How would I live with that!? I was so scared I’d really lost you, and it’s all because of this ~FUCKING~ picture!?!?”  He ripped it in half. "And you can’t do that to me!" He ripped it again. "THAT'S NOT FAIR FOR YOU TO DO THAT TO ME!" He ripped it again, and then again, before throwing the fragments into the smoking fire.  Despite Alim's curses and screams, Rillen, shaking with rage and holding back sobs, stormed away to the bedroom. 

Alim, bawling, knelt beside the fire, trying to save the pieces he could see.  It was so hot, and each time he reached in, the flames licked at his fingers, burning and searing him.  It made him angrier, and he cried harder.  When the last shred was blackened and charred, he turned his attention to the paints.  Cradling his red, scorched hands, he stood up and moved to the palette.  Alim's heart shattered to pieces as he realized there was nothing to salvage, the colors and textures were all wrong.  What little paint remained on the plate had mixed with dirt from the floor.  There weren't even anymore leaves to start over with, Rillen had made sure of that.  His plan.  All that work.  His promise.  Gone.  Burnt away and dashed to the floor. 

Fury boiled within him.  He felt it like molten steel spread from his belly to his clenched jaw, to his aching fists, and to the tips of his toes.  He ran to the bedroom door.   

"RILLEN!" He pounded on the door with all of his might.  "RILLEN, YOU NASTY SHIT, OPEN THE DOOR!"  Something heavy was blocking it, but Alim was going to get in there, and Alim was going to hurt him for this.  He sobbed harder and harder as he slammed away at the door with his fists, then his feet, then rammed it with his shoulder.   

He screeched at the top of his lungs, "RILLEN!!!!!!!"  His throat was raw with the force of his scream.  "I HATE YOU RILLEN SURANA.  YOU'RE A DIRTY BASTARD AND I WILL NEVER FORGIVE YOU FOR THIS!"  The door offered no expression nor emotion, and Rillen's silence from within made him all the more furious. 

 

"AAAHHHH!!!"  He screamed like he was possessed. He pounded again and again at the door, willing the thick planks of wood to break beneath his blows.  Each failed attempt a grim reminder of how weak and insignificant he was.  He was utterly powerless. Powerless against Milene's attacks.  Powerless to stop Rillen from destroying his work.  Powerless to escape the Alienage. Powerless to get through this ~damned~ door.  The more he realized, the more desperate he became.  At the peak of his emotion, it happened. 

 

A bright light flashed, accompanied by an earsplitting _CRACK_ that blasted him off his feet.    He rubbed his eyes, wiping tears from his face.  The knot on his head throbbed.  The door was gone.  Through the settling cloud of dust and annihilated wood, Alim saw into the bedroom.  Shredded chunks of wood had been blown across the room as if a battering ram, and not a small boy, had been banging on the door.  Petrified, Alim inched closer to the portal, standing at the precipice of the destruction.  He looked down, and clapped his hands over his mouth, faze frozen in a silent scream.  There, lying on the ground, glazed eyes staring into space, was his big brother.  His body was crooked, arms and legs bent at grotesque angles.  Red blood pooled around the various puncture wounds where splintered wood had hit him like shrapnel, staining his white tunic like paint.  Alim's head throbbed as he cried.  

The following days were a blur of horror and heartache.  Mum coming home to find him crying over Rillen's body.  The city guards coming to talk to Mum.  Mum arguing with the guards.  Mum not being able to look him in the eye.  

 

Two days later, the templars came.  He didn't understand why Mum let them take him.   She must have hated him for what he did to Rillen, maybe that's why.  He hated himself.   His head throbbed. He should have stayed in that night.  

                                                                             .........................

Alim awoke with a start.  Sweat prickled at his brow, his breathing shallow and ragged.  This was the first dream of Rillen that he had had in months.  The grey pallor of his face, the lifeless, glassy eyes, and pools of scarlet blood seemed permanently branded across the inside of his eyelids. Realizing the impossibility of sleep, he sat up, hugging his knees to his chest and rubbing his eyes. 

 

"And you told me you were too tired earlier, 'I need to sleep, Zev,' you said."  Zevran mocked, stirring from his sleep.  "Next thing I know you'll be telling me you've been faking your orgasms." 

Alim said nothing. 

"Luckily, you’re the worst liar on this side of the Frostbacks, so my prowess remains,” he yawned, crossing his arms behind his head. “Uncontested." He finished. 

His play for a laugh fell flat.  Alim didn't even crack a smile. 

"Alim?"  Zevran lowered his voice, furrowing his brow.  He sat up, and placed a reassuring hand on the back of his neck.  "Are you alright?" 

Alim didn't look at him.  "It's nothing.  Just a dream."  He wiped sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. 

Zevran tutted, and placed a light kiss on the side of his head.  "You really are a terrible liar.  I'll give you some _private_ lessons on lying when--" 

"It was my brother."  Alim cut him off. 

Zevran instantly grew silent, regretting the insensitivity of his humor.  Zevran had heard this story. He had heard it the same night he told Alim about Rinna.  The same night they shared their first kiss. 

"Lay down with me," he whispered into Alim's ear.  He curled around the smaller elf, throwing a muscled arm over his chest and pulling him close, his hand finding Alim's and holding it tightly.   

Alim tried to match his breathing to Zevran's. In the heavy chill of the night, the warmth against his back felt good.  He was safe here.  He could let down his guard. 

"Zev?" 

"Hmm?" 

"...Nevermind.” Something was gnawing at him. 

Zevran nuzzled his nose into the nape of Alim's neck in response, languidly kissing everywhere he could reach. A few moments passed, the silence punctuated by kisses on shoulders and the humming insects. 

"This--what we're doing..." Alim started.

"Snuggling?" 

"No, I mean us."  Zevran was quiet, so he demonstrated his point with a shake of their clasped hands, " _This!_ "  He closed his eyes, feeling Zevran's breath against him, firm chest pressed to his back.  "I can’t keep this up." 

“You know me, I’m good at keeping things up,” Zevran mused. 

"I'm serious, Zev.”  Alim paused, suddenly unable to find the words. “I feel like a fraud, like I’m lying to everyone, like I’m lying to you.” Alim paused again, fighting the tremor in his voice. “You wouldn’t like me anymore if you knew what I’ve done.”

Zevran spoke softly into his ear. "Usually, I do what feels right.  I do what brings me pleasure. _This_ ," he mimicked Alim, bouncing their hands around again, "feels right, and I won’t be letting you go. Not for anything you’ve ‘done’, not even for the damned blight.” His Antivan accent lit up the words as he spoke, and they fell gently over Alim’s ears, wrapping him in a haze of warm relief. Zevran released their hands to pull Alim even tighter against him, closing the already small gap between their hips.

"I want to believe you. But I just don’t know.” 

" _I_ know." Zevran whispered, tracing circles with his thumb on the back of Alim's hand.

"You don't.” Alim’s tone wasn’t angry, it just betrayed deep-seated hurt that Alim wanted so badly to confess. “None of you know what this is like for me, what’s expected of me. You and the others have this bizarre perception that I'm this hero or something.   But that's not who I am, the furthest thing from it, actually. And I feel like a child playing pretend." His voice was catching, a knot growing in his throat.  "You all expect me to lead you through this.  I don't think I can." He bit his lip, fighting the burn in his eyes.  "I'm not a good person, Zev." 

 

"What happened to Rillen was not your fault."   _Not your fault._  That phrase haunted Alim.  It had entirely lost its meaning to him; it almost taunted him with the cruel untruth of it.  If not his, whose fault _was_ it? 

"It's not just Rillen..."  A moment passed as Alim drew up the courage to face his guilt.  "I caused the disaster in Redcliffe." He blurted, the words fell out before he could hesitate. 

Zevran hummed a small, sleepy laugh.  "You're tired, you had a nightmare, you're feeling doubt.  But if you caused what happened in Redcliffe than Alistair's the king of Ferelden!"  He said, joking. 

To Zevran's surprise, that didn't make Alim feel better. 

"You wouldn't understand, Zev." 

"Oh, of course, because your life is so much more complex and difficult than everyone else's?  If only there was someone who could understand that vast, complicated brain of yours."  Alim caught the sarcasm, and knew Zevran was right.  So many of the struggles he'd faced throughout his life, Zevran had too.  Snatched from home at a young age.  Thrown into a world you wanted nothing to do with, with no way to escape.  Their mothers. The list went on and on. 

Alim swallowed.  "I suppose I should start from the beginning..." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the curious, the present day takes place just after the disaster at Redcliffe. The Warden and his allies have recruited the Dalish army, and the Mage army, and are now on their way to Haven to find the Urn of Sacred Ashes.


	3. Irving

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Irving brings together two apprentices.

"This is the third time you've been into my office this week," the First Enchanter said disapprovingly, stroking his graying beard.  "And it's only Thursday." 

Alim cradled his hands in his lap, determinedly staring at the same spot on the floor.  "Maybe you should tell your mages to stop sending me here then," he muttered. 

Irving uncrossed his arms, and leaned forward in his chair, "Alim, you announced to your entire Cultural Studies lecture that our Circle should be annulled.  You can't possibly expect our Senior Mages to allow that sort of behavior." 

 He watched as Alim impatiently bounced his knee, looking anywhere but at Irving. 

"Alim, you've been here for three years, and not once have we ever done wrong by you," he said, a hint of exasperation in his voice.  "The way you've been carrying on, you’d think we've been beating you.  You don't take your classes seriously, you don't take the mages seriously.  Besides me, I don't think you've made a single true friend here." 

"Keili is my friend."  Alim said indignantly.   

"Keili and you are friends because you both would rather be dead than here," he said.  Alim pursed his lips to stop from smiling.   Irving smiled too, and stood up, scraping his ornately carved chair on the marble floor.  He crossed around his glossy, dark cherrywood desk, the breeze of his robes fluttering the pages of open, dusty tomes as he passed.  Each step a brittle knock that echoed around the stone halls, barely muffled by the overfull bookcases that lined the walls.   

He crouched next to Alim, taking his hands in his own.  "Forgive me for bringing this up, I know I swore not to, but what happened to your brother was _not_ your fault."  Alim still avoided eye contact, so Irving continued.  "Magic is a heavy burden to bear, there is no denying.  There's not a mage in the Tower that hasn't felt the weight of the burden at some point.  But it isn't up to us to decide every minuscule detail of our fate.  Though you may decide your path, you cannot decide the weather you’ll face as you walk it.  I know you never asked to have magic, but that is not your position to question." 

Alim finally looked into Irving's grey eyes. 

"You do have a choice, however, my dear Alim.  You can wallow in self-pity and self-loathing, or you can _choose_ to flourish here.  Magic is a terrible power, yes, what happened to your brother is evidence enough of that.  But _terrible power is still power_ , and if you choose to wield it, you won't be nearly so helpless the next time the weather changes." 

After Alim had gone, Irving sat back down at his desk, pensively stroking his beard again.   A moment later, he had decided.  He knew a way that he could help his young apprentice.  After all, lessons are only internalized so much when they come from an authority figure, even one as trusted as Irving.  Much better, he thought, if it came from a peer.  If Alim was going to truly thrive here, he would need positive influences.   

He called in his assistant.  "Find Jowan for me, please..." 

 

……………………...

Alim had been sitting in the commissary, thinking over the First Enchanter's words, when he heard the slight cough behind him. 

" _Ahem_ , uh, hello, you're...you're Alim Surana, aren't you?"    

Alim turned on the bench to see who had spoken.  He recognized the fidgety, young lad that stood over him from his classes.  He was likely only a few years older than Alim. A mop of black hair, parted in the middle, fell in feathered locks over his ears and into his strikingly dark eyes.  He was tall, even for a human boy, with lanky, slender limbs. 

"Can I help you?"  Alim asked, an eyebrow cocked. 

"No--well--sort of.  Actually," he shifted his weight nervously, "I'm supposed to be helping _you_."  He bit his lip, waiting for Alim's reaction. 

"Helping me?  Sorry, I'm not sure I follow."  Alim began to look around the hall, searching for excuses he could make to end the conversation faster.   

The boy smacked himself in the forehead, "Oh, Maker, I'm sorry--I should explain." 

"It's fine, I just really have to get going."  He started packing up his food, irked that he wouldn't be able to finish the extra sweet cakes the cook had snuck onto his plate.  He ripped off a chunk of the cake and crammed it in his mouth, chewing as he stood up.  "Big tesht nesht week, godda shtudy," he said with a fake smile, his mouth full and spewing crumbs. 

"No, no, that's exactly it!"  Jowan said. Alim was already walking away.  "Irving asked me to be your tutor!" 

Alim stopped in his tracks.  He swallowed.  Turning very slowly to face the boy, his voice dropped, low and venomous, "Tutor?"  

The boy sensed he was in dangerous territory.  He tried to smile to diffuse the growing tension (Alim admitted bitterly to himself that his smile was disarming).  "Yeah, I mean, it helps to have a partner to study with, so he thought...that I could...y'know." 

"No."  Alim said brusquely.  He turned to walk away again. 

The boy began to walk after him, prattling on as Alim sped up.  "Look, I don't like it much either, but I know you haven't been doing well in your magic classes, and, let's face it, we could both use the practice--" 

"Not interested." 

"Have it your way, then."  He stopped chasing.  "I'll just tell the First Enchanter you didn't want my help."  Alim slowed to a stop.  He looked over his shoulder at the boy, who shrugged innocently.  Alim resented the fact that Irving felt he needed to get involved this way.  He didn't want a tutor, he _wanted_ to leave.  And yet, Irving's words hung in his mind, replaying over and over.   

_Terrible power is still power._  He had said. Alim considered the situation.  He spun on his heel, charging at the boy, who flinched, cowering at Alim's approach. 

"What's in this for you?" He demanded, eyes narrowed. 

"Me?  Uh."  His eyes darted around, as if making eye contact with this tiny terror of a person would incinerate him.  "The joy of, uhh, helping others?"  Alim's indignant expression was all the prodding the boy needed.  "Alright, alright he offered me extra credit for Ethics of Magic if I help you on the Creation exam." 

Alim nodded, decidedly.  He reached into his bag, pulling out a piece of paper, quill and inkwell.  He leaned over on the table, writing a time and location.  "Meet me here."  His tone grew darker and more dangerous as he wrote.  "And don't presume for one second that I need your help.  I'm doing this for both of us.  I can get Irving off my back and you'll get your extra credit." He tore off the scrap, shoving it into the boy's chest, and knocking him off balance. 

"Fine! Jeesh..." the boy mumbled, straightening his robes. Alim nodded curtly, and spun on his heel, ponytail of braids swishing back and forth as he fled. 

"My name's Jowan, by the way!" Jowan yelled after him, wondering if such a prickly person would even care. 

 

……………………...

The next day, Alim sat in the practice rooms, impatiently waiting for his new mentor's arrival. The night before, he had come to realize that he had three options, and only one viable one. 

First, he could continue stubbornly resisting all the teachings of the Circle, and adamantly avoid using magic. This was an unquestionably awful plan. It could only end one way, and that was through the Rite of Tranquility.  If the Senior Mages decided that Alim lacked the skill to adequately control his magic, they would make him Tranquil: a soulless shell of a person, free from magic, but also from his humanity.  He'd be alive, but not _living_. The Rite is its own sort of death. 

Second, he could run away, he supposed.   _Also_ a terrible plan, because it was basically, actually choosing death. The templars had his phylactery, and could track him as easily as they could take a nap.   He'd have to find a way to destroy his phylactery, and he had not even a hint of an idea how to do that on his own.   

The only thing that made any sense, though it both infuriated and terrified him to admit it, was to try and follow Irving's advice.  He was going to learn to use magic.  No, not just learn it, master it.  If Alim was going to do this, he was going to be the best bleeding mage in the Tower.  He recognized that the world of a mage was not a forgiving one.  It was a wall, inflexible and unsympathetic.  Every brick had to be perfectly in line, or otherwise suffer the wrath of the Chantry.  If Alim was going to survive, and ever have a chance to leave the Tower, he had to find his place on the wall, or else be crushed by it.  It was quite literally a matter of life or death. 

Jowan showed up several minutes late with a stack of books so high he had to steady it with his chin.  "Hello," he smiled between heaving breaths. 

"Here, let me help you," Alim said.  He got up and grabbed a load of books off the top to lighten the load.  "Better?" 

"Much," Jowan chuckled. "Wasn't sure what we'd need, so I figured I'd cover the basics." 

Alim's stomach jerked as they placed the books on a nearby table.   _These are the **basics!?**_ He thought to himself.  Maybe he was in over his head.  He hadn't actually learned much of anything since he came here, stubborn as he was, and now, looking at the mountain of literature, he wondered if maybe it was too late. 

"Right, um, Jowan?"  Jowan, who had turned to page 394 in a thick tome titled _The Arcane Arts: An Exploration of Creation Vol. I_ , looked over expectantly.  Alim suddenly found himself without words.  "Um, I, uh..." He scratched behind his ear, and looked at the floor.  "I'm...I'm sorry.   About yesterday. I...it wasn't about you, I was just..."  He sighed.  "I'm sorry I was rude." 

Jowan flashed another brilliant smile, staring intently at the floor.  "Apology accepted."  He clapped his hands together, rubbing them. "Right then, shall we get started?" Alim nodded, relieved to have made peace.  They sat down at the table. "On test day, Sweeney is going to ask you to heal a minor cut."  Jowan produced a small letter opener from the folds of his robes, and quickly nicked his index finger.   "Give it a go," he said, holding his finger out.   

Alim's heart leapt into his throat.  He tried hard to keep his hands steady as he held them out to try and work the spell.   _Heal!_ He thought desperately.   _Heal!  Oh, come on, HEAL!_  His panic only worsened as Jowan eyed him from across the table, drop after drop of red blood splashing to the surface.  He was sweating now as the shame of not being able to cast even the most basic Creation spell bore down on him. 

Jowan, mercifully, pulled his finger back.  In an instant, with a small blue glow from his other hand, the cut sealed itself, and the blood pulled back inside.  He had realized something as he watched Alim's intense concentration.  "Have you ever worked healing magic before?"  Jowan asked. 

"Honestly?  No." 

"Ever...lit a fire?" 

Alim shook his head, eyes cast downward. 

“Levitated a feather?”

Alim was silent.

"Well, what _have_ you done?" 

Alim stared intently into his lap, wishing he could sink through the floor and just die already. 

"Alim?" 

Meekly, he whispered,  "I knocked over a cup of tea with my mind once.  I might've just bumped the table though, so..." 

Jowan leaned back in his chair. "Oh."  He said.   

Alim _knew_ this was a bad idea.  He wasn't cut out for this, he should just tell Jowan to leave and accept that he'd be made a Tranquil.  He hadn't _ever_ been able to control his magic, what made him think that this time would be any-- 

"Well then," Jowan slapped his hands down on his thighs, his tone warm and encouraging.  "We better get started, we've got a lot of ground to cover." 

Alim pricked up his pointy ears. Jowan was still going to help him? He didn’t even laugh like most of the other apprentices had when they saw him try to cast a spell. “Uh, alright.” He said, unsure still if he could trust Jowan to not make a fool out of him. As he listened to Jowan's explanation of how mages draw their strength from the Fade, the thought crossed his mind that maybe, just maybe, he was ready to learn. 

When Alim finally left the practice room, the sun was setting and throwing sweet, golden light over the library.  Dust motes floated between fading rays, and hunched-over students leafed through cracked and dried pages of age old books. Alim sat at the bottom of a staircase, letting the light wash over him as he pulled out a roll of parchment. With a piece of graphite, he sketched Jowan’s face the way it might look in this sunset. Half his face covered in long shadows, the other half brightly chiseled out by the direct light.   He'd spent the entire afternoon with Jowan, and truthfully, it had been the happiest Alim had felt in a long time.

........................

"Do you feel it?"  Jowan had asked. 

"Yes!  Yes, I do!"  It was a tension, an energy, like every fiber of his being was charged and itching to move. 

"Let it out!" 

Alim tried to let go, but every time he could feel it getting close, he'd clench and pull back, perhaps out of fear, or maybe simply habit.  It was bitter and frustrating work.  The whole process was like learning to use a muscle he'd never moved.  He could feel the energy grow and grow, only to seep out of him.  The more he tried to reverse this "clenching," the farther away it got from him.   

But he'd try again.  And Jowan stayed with him, sometimes just helping him to breathe, and other times just talking.  And all the time it was getting easier to tap into the power.   

"NOW, Alim!" 

"Urghhh!" A blast of blue light and the entire table was launched across the room, books and papers tossed in the air as it flipped.   

"Yes! Well done!" Jowan threw a fist in the air. “If that wasn’t an Arcane Bolt I don’t know what is!”

"I did it!"  Alim threw himself at Jowan, hugging him tightly and laughing hysterically.  Jowan felt a little awkward hugging him, a little stiff, but still warm. "Thank you, Jowan!  Thank you so, so much!" Jowan gave Alim a few, firm pats on the back, maybe a little uncomfortable and more than a little confused with this show of affection. 

 

Just then, an image of Rillen flashed through Alim’s mind. The shattered door. His shattered body. Alim’s shattered life. As quickly as the joy of success had come, it had gone, replaced by guilt and shame. Alim cringed out of the hug, suddenly unable to meet Jowan’s eyes

 

“Congratulations, friend. Ready to go again?” Jowan asked gleefully. 

"I dunno, I think that's about enough for today."   Alim said. He suddenly felt so tired. From using his mana? Or from his plummeting spirit? _Probably both._ He thought.

 

 "Right, makes sense. Don't want to exhaust yourself too early.  We could try again tomorrow if you want?" It was a question, an invitation. 

Alim did want to see him again. "Uh-huh, yeah.” Alim smiled his crooked smile, trying to mask his thoughts. “See you tomorrow.”  
……………………

As Alim rolled up his sketch of Jowan, he paused to glimpse the final moments of the sunset.  He remembered how powerful he had felt as he slung that spell at the table. _Terrible power._ Could he own that power? Control it? Use it for good? Magic had ruined his life, but was there more to the story than just being a victim of magic? What would his mother say? What would Rillen say? 

 

Alim tried to imagine that Rillen was beside him. Tall and strong, blonde hair and light skin glowing in the dusk. Alim was taller now, he wondered how much Rillen might have grown. “Alim,” Rillen would say, wrapping an arm around him, as if he was going to shield him from all the bad things. “Survive this world. If you can’t beat it, survive it.” That’s what Rillen would say. And he would say that he loved Alim, and wanted him to be happy and safe. And Alim would say that he was sorry, and that he loved him too, and that he missed him so much. 

 

Alim wiped the tears pooling in his eyes and began to walk steadily toward his dormitory, suddenly completely confident in his decision. Something had changed within him.  Gone were the days when Alim Surana was a victim, or a supporting character in his own life.  He was taking charge, and it filled him with an inexhaustible source of hope for his future. For once, a happy ending seemed within reach, and no one could take that from him.


	4. Jowan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Being friends with Jowan isn't as simple as it used to be.

Jowan and Alim met regularly, their practices becoming more and more frequent with time.  At first it was once a day, then twice.  They began to eat lunch together, and then dinner too.  They spent their mornings sitting next to each other in their classes, whispering about the rumor that Senior Enchanter Sweeney wore women's underwear. They spent their evenings by the hearth sitting on plush couches, shoulders pressed together, laughing till their sides hurt about nothing at all. 

Alim was sort of painfully aware that Jowan was a large part of the reason for the shift in his perspective. Perhaps it was, y’know, the stable companionship and a friendship based on mutual respect and encouragement.  Or perhaps it was the way he knew he could make Jowan laugh that foolish high-pitched giggle by doing an impression of Ingus the templar. Or the way Jowan would surprise him after class with a sweet cake from lunch. Or maybe it was the way Jowan always let Alim hug him tightly after a successful spell.  Alim would hook his arms under Jowan's, and smile into his bony, awkward shoulder. 

Several months passed like this. All of Alim's mentors, including Irving, noticed the tremendous change in him.  Not only had Alim become more focused and driven, but he had become one of the most exceptional students in his class. “What a precocious young apprentice. A proper protege,” Senior Enchanter Torrin had noted once.  In only a few short months of practice with Jowan, he had learned all of the magic, and then some, that an apprentice his age was expected to know.  

 

A few months more, and Jowan began to notice that Alim was outgrowing him.

They were in their stuffy, small practice room again, the place in which Alim had grown so comfortable. He had just received outstanding marks on the History of the Chantry exam; however, when Senior Enchanter Torrin handed Jowan’s exam back, Alim couldn’t help but notice a great deal of red ink.

"No, no, try it like this." Alim said, as he maneuvered behind Jowan. Alim had just performed the spell perfectly, how hard could it be? He wrapped his arms around Jowan’s waist to make some small adjustments. He also dropped his chin to rest on Jowan’s shoulder, not _entirely_ in the spirit of being helpful. "Try relaxing your arms.  It might help the energy flow more easily."   

Jowan dropped his hands, and hung his head with a sigh. 

 Alim picked his chin up. "You alright?" 

"Fine.  I’ve had enough for today." He ran a hand through his hair, and pulled away from Alim’s embrace.  Without so much as a glance toward his friend, he began packing his things. 

 

“Oh, don’t be like that, you can do it! It was a snap for me, I think it’s just a matter of confidence. You have to really _believe_ you can do it.”

 

“I _believe_ that you sound like stuck up brat when you try to teach _me_ magic.” His movements were jerky, he was practically slamming each book closed as he stuffed them into his satchel. “Who’s the tutor here again? Me or you?” Jowan snapped.

 

"Are you mental? What are you on about?" Alim asked, genuinely confused.  He was still rooted to the spot where he had only a moment ago been pleasantly pressed against Jowan. His arms felt suddenly empty and dangled at his sides awkwardly.

 

“Oh nothing, don’t mind me, nothing’s wrong at all!” Jowan flourished exaggeratedly. 

 

Alim watched his frenzied movements, felt his energy pushing him away. “...Can you just talk to me?” Alim’s heart was beating in his throat. The last thing he ever wanted to do was alienate his best friend, how could this have happened? What did he do wrong?

 

“Nope. After all, I’m just ~mental~ anyway, right?” Jowan buckled his bag and slung it over his shoulder. His voice was cold, unforgiving.  "These practices are a waste of my time" and then, quietly, as if talking more to himself than to Alim, he muttered, "We’re done here."  He spun, heading for the door, still avoiding Alim's gaze.   

 

Alim felt like he had been struck. They had been having such a nice evening only a moment ago, or so Alim had thought. Was it something he said? Part of him wanted to be angry too, and meet Jowan there at that fever pitch of emotion. Overwhelmingly, though, Alim was paralyzed by this sudden shift in character. It was like watching a fennec transform into a snapping, frothing bear at the drop of a hat. Alim had no idea Jowan was capable of unhinging like this, letting a darker side of him show.

 

It wasn't until Jowan had already closed the door behind him that Alim found his voice. "Jowan, wait!" he chased after him, into the dim hallway lit only by torchlight.  "Jowan!" 

Jowan stopped midstep, frozen by Alim's voice echoing around him. 

"I...I'm sorry! I’m sorry, don't go." Alim pleaded. "We don't have to practice anymore today.  I'm sorry, okay?"  

Jowan finally looked Alim in his face. He saw how small Alim looked. Alim’s eyes were wide and glittering in the light of the cressets, his hands nervously kneading. Jowan pinched the bridge of his nose, and squeezed his eyes shut. "Look I...ugh, don't be." he sighed. "You didn't do anything…” 

 

Alim let out a doubtful laugh, shrugging as if to say ‘ _really?_ ’

 

Jowan shrugged back, exhaling audibly. “You don’t need these practices anymore.” When Alim didn’t respond, Jowan continued. “I’m dead weight. Don’t you see that? I can't help you, Alim, not anymore, and I might be an arse but I'm not blind. You're twice the mage I am...You don’t need me anymore."   

"But you're ~my~ arse," Alim’s face flushed with the embarrassment of being so sincere.  "Well, not literally, of course, I only meant I _do_ need you, but not specifically as an arse.  And you're not even an arse, you're much more appealing than..." Jowan smiled weakly as Alim persevered through his thought.  "Forget it," he shook his head, spent. "I don't spend time with you because I think I need you, I do it because you're..."  Alim tried to lean on the wall as casually as he could muster.   "...Pleasant, and funny, and...well, I'm quite fond of you--AH SHIT!"  His robes had almost caught fire from the low mounted sconce.

Jowan watched in silence as Alim flailed like a scared nug trying to squash the small flame. When he had sufficiently extinguished it, he flashed his crooked smile, tossed his ponytail of braids over his shoulder, and resumed his casual lean on the wall.

" _Ahem,_ " Jowan cleared his throat, trying to choke back laughter. “...I appreciate it.” Alim felt some of the ice leave Jowan’s voice and posture. “I’m just, I don’t know, I have a lot on my mind.” 

 

“Well, talk to me, then.” Alim said meekly. “I can be the one you talk to, if you want me to be. We could talk to each other.”

 

“I can’t talk to you, you’re the-” Jowan interrupted himself. “I can’t, alright? I need to sort my head out.” He nodded curtly in Alim’s direction, and rushed away, leaving Alim behind, alone. More alone than he had felt in a long time.

 

Jowan spent the next few weeks keeping a safe distance from Alim. He avoided him at meals, in the dormitory, and particularly in class, when he wouldn’t even make eye contact. Alim desperately wanted to reach out, and somehow reignite their connection, but out of respect for Jowan, or perhaps out of bitterness, Alim said nothing other than polite ‘Hello’s’ and ‘How are you’s’. 

 

And then, in the blink of an eye, things changed. 

 

“Morning!” Jowan plopped his tray of food down next to Alim in the commissary, nudging him with his hip as he slid into the bench. 

 

Alim choked, and inhaled a good-sized gulp of the water he had been sipping.

 

“Easy, tiger.” Jowan smiled amiably. With one gloved hand, he patted Alim’s back as he worked through his coughing fit. With the other, he spooned the sloppy porridge into his mouth hungrily. 

 

When Alim had recovered enough to speak, he wiped his mouth and searched Jowan’s face for a sign of what was happening. Choosing his words carefully, he said “Everything...alright?”

 

Jowan chuckled amicably. “Brilliant! Never better, truly.” 

 

Alim’s ears pricked up, he nodded slowly, “Are you chilly?” 

 

“Whaddya mehn?” Jowan said through a mouthful of slop. 

 

Alim jerked his head, gesturing at the gloves.

 

“Oh these?” Jowan took an exceedingly long time wiping his mouth and organizing his place setting, as if he too was choosing his words carefully. “Clumsy dolt that I am, I dropped a hand mirror earlier. Shattered.” He pulled off a glove, revealing a thick bandage wrapped around his hand. The faint red stain of blood was beginning to seep through. 

 

The question of why he wouldn’t just heal himself crossed Alim’s mind briefly, but was quickly replaced with the euphoric relief that Jowan was willingly here, talking to him again. It was bizarre though, Alim thought, this level of hyper-energy Jowan suddenly had. He had, after all, spent the last 2 weeks practically moping around the tower like an abandoned dog. _What’s different?_ Alim wondered. He made a mental note to keep his eyes open for anything else that seemed odd.

 

However, whatever reservations Alim had about the abruptness of the shift in Jowan’s comportment, they were eclipsed by the feeling of having him at his side again. People in the tower didn’t seem to ever want to talk about how beautiful it is to go through life with another person. They said to be strong is to be independent, to have willpower is to resist. But Alim had tried that, for years. And having experienced life with Jowan now, he knew which one he preferred. Jowan was a lens to see the world through, and a mirror for Alim to see himself reflected back in a way he could understand. Alim so desperately wanted Jowan’s company, he supposed could forgive a few weeks of weirdness.


	5. Ingus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alim and Jowan break some rules.

Over the next few days, Jowan and Alim resumed their tight friendship. His upbeat mood persisted, and Alim didn’t seem to mind. Alim ~had~ made some bizarre observations though. Watching Jowan shed his robes one night, Alim noticed long, raised scars lining Jowan’s wrists and forearms. Alim was certain ~those~ hadn’t been there before. Jowan also tended to wear his black leather gloves most days, even after his original wound had healed, and, to Alim’s delight, he was performing generally much better in his magic classes.

 

However, with things going so well between them, it was easy to silence the nagging voice in his head whispering to Alim that something was off. 

 

As summer began to fade into muted autumn, Alim found himself sketching a particular drawing under the serene sunlight slanting through the windows of the library. He had seen Jowan lying on his bunk, reading a small book propped on his stomach with one hand, while the other made a long graceful line up behind his head. He hadn’t been wearing a shirt at the time, and Alim couldn’t help but notice the huge expanses of pale skin that curved and dipped in concert with his thin muscles. The image had stuck with him, like it was seared behind his eyelids. He found himself thinking of what it might be like to feel the sharp peaks and valleys of Jowan’s stomach, to put his mouth on the v-shaped creases in his hips that led beneath his knickers. Alim touched himself thinking about touching Jowan, wanting Jowan to touch him back, wanting to be able to set each other ablaze.

 

“Hey, Alim! Are you busy?” Alim jolted as though he was electrified.

 

“Jowan! Hi! Yes! I mean, nope!!” He scrambled to throw his limbs, and really more his entire upper body, over the parchment he had been drawing on, for now the subject of his art was standing just over Alim’s shoulder. While practically laying on the table, Alim tried to clear his throat, and act casual. “So, to what do I owe the pleasure of your company?”

 

"Well, I was wondering,” Jowan shifted nervously. “Do you...want to go somewhere?  With me?  Tonight?  Not for practice obviously, we could simply spend time together, you know, for reasons other than practice--" 

"Definitely."  Alim said a little too quickly. 

"Oh.  Right.  Definitely."  Jowan smiled and gave a thumbs up.  "Er, okay.  Meet me in the Entrance Hall at midnight?" 

"Sure, yeah." Alim smiled.  And with that, each of them only slightly mortified, they parted ways. 

 

………………………..

 

 

A few minutes after midnight, Alim gracefully tiptoed down the stairs to the Entrance Hall, and found Jowan hurrying toward him. 

"Come on, come on!  Not much time!"  He was breathless, a bandage stained crimson with blood wrapped around his hand.  Alim noticed it instantly. 

"Jowan..." 

"I'm fine, I'm fine.  I'll heal it when we get there."  He saw Alim's face sour into a frown.  "Eesh, you're ruining the mood. Relax."  Jowan grabbed his hand, and pulled him toward the two great--and perplexingly ajar--wooden doors that led outside.  As they drew closer, Alim felt panic rising in his throat. 

"Jowan, no, we can't!  The templars!"  He tugged at Jowan's iron grasp on his hand, to no avail. 

"Taken care of." he smirked.  Before Alim even had time to question, a blast of frigid air washed over him as they stumbled passed the creaking doors into the star-speckled night.  He heard the distant splashes of waves breaking on the shore of the island, and looked to see the dark, heaving waters of Lake Calenhad sparkling under the moonlight.  Jowan sped forward, walking, then trotting.  Soon, they were both running like horses set free from the stable.  Spongy grass and craggy stone beneath their slim, leather boots instead of smooth tile, the sound of wind in their ears instead of the constant, deafening hush of the tower, and all the while the yellow light spilling from Kinloch Hold growing smaller in the distance.  Alim threw a glance back at the tower. His heart leapt at seeing how far they had gotten from their gilded cage.  All traces of reluctance gone, he was no longer Jowan's hesitant anchor being dragged across the seafloor. He sprinted, brimming with unbridled joy and racing Jowan to the rocky beach below.  It was the first time he had left the Tower since the astronomy demonstration a few years earlier.  The first time ever that he had been outside without a contingent of templars dogging his steps. 

A rush of pine scented wind swirled around him, slipping under his robes, caressing his skin and leaving gooseflesh as it went.  There was so much air!  Alim began to laugh. He was so peacefully, blessedly alone.  And yet, he wasn't truly alone. There was Jowan.  Just the two of them to share all this space.   

Seconds later, they had arrived at the beach, pale in the moonlight and balmy despite the crisp air of the night.  Alim tugged on Jowan's hand and they both tumbled down into the sand, whereupon he threw his arms out, and dug his fingers into the rough, pebbled dunes.  The feel of the beach, the smell of the lake, the distant moving shadows behind lighted windows in the tower, it was overwhelmingly euphoric. 

"The templars are going to _murder_ us," Alim laughed, belly aching and tears in his eyes. 

Jowan snorted, "I wouldn't worry about them." He propped himself up on one elbow, and looked into Alim's face, uncertain.  "Are you happy?"  

"Are you joking?  This is the best night of my life!  I can't believe we did this!" 

"Then it's worth it.  The risk of being out here.  The..." he glanced at his injured hand.  "Everything." Alim could tell Jowan wanted to find the words, but the more he tried the more he lost them in the depths of Alim's eyes, flecked with the light of a thousand stars.  "I wanted to do something special, y'know, and I dunno it just seemed--" He rubbed the back of his neck with his good hand. 

"Thank you, really, _thank you_."  Alim said, sitting up to meet his gaze.  "This is," Alim looked out at the rippling water, “like a dream come to life.” 

A wave broke on the beach, punctuating the silence. 

"Oh! I brought something else," Jowan reached down his robes, and pulled out a cask.  "What's one more broken rule?"  He smiled devilishly.  He unstoppered the cork, and handed it to Alim.  Squinting suspiciously at his friend, Alim took a long drink.  Wine!  A delicious, savory red.   

"Unbelievable," Alim said incredulously.  "How, by the Maker, _how_ did you do all this?" 

Jowan brushed his hair out of his face, "If I told you, you wouldn't believe me." 

Alim smiled, shaking his head.  He saw Jowan cradling his haphazardly bandaged hand. 

"May I?"  He reached for the hand, recoiling when he saw Jowan flinch at the movement.  "I'm not going to hurt you, silly. Here," he crawled closer, sitting back on his heels.  Gingerly, he moved Jowan's hand into his lap and began unwinding the cloth with careful precision.  Part of him wanted to ask what had happened, part of him was afraid what the answer would be.

Jowan watched every movement of Alim's small, slender fingers as they worked, graceful and dextrous as only an elf's could be.  He finally pulled back the last layer of bandage, and revealed a deep cut, blood still seeping from it, black under the polarizing light of the moon.  Alim adjusted his grip, eliciting a wince and sharp inhale from Jowan.  'Shh, it's alright."  He whispered.  He raised a hand to touch him with mana, soothing the wound with warmth as the the flesh knitted itself back together.  Illuminated by the blue light of the spell, Jowan noticed Alim's features, delicate yet strong.  His eyes dragged over Alim’s wide brow and cascaded down his pointed ears, the gentle curve of his jaw, the dimple at the base of his neck, his narrow shoulders.  With his free hand, he touched a finger to Alim's chin, tilting his face upward.  They met each other's gaze. 

"What?"  Alim said gently, the slightest hint of a smile on his lips. 

"Maker's breath, you're amazing."  Jowan exhaled. 

Alim couldn't repress his smile, "It's nothing really.  The same healing spell you taught me, as a matter of fact."  He glanced downward, indicating the shimmering, blue light still radiating from his hands in waves. 

He shook his head. "I wasn't talking about the spell."   

Alim blushed, grateful for the dark.  Silence.   

A split second later, Jowan lunged forward and pressed his shaking lips to Alim’s, whose eyes widened in shock. Jowan’s lips were warm and smooth. Alim drew back after a moment, suddenly unable to rip his eyes away from Jowan’s. 

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have...I just thought--"   Before Jowan could finish his thought, Alim had already begun to lean forward. An invitation.  Jowan brushed Alim's cheek with the backs of his fingers, and held his face.  Alim pressed into the touch, closing his eyes against Jowan's warm hands.  Tenderly, Jowan brought his lips close, just a hairsbreadth from Alim's as the healing spell's light began to fade.  Like feathers, their mouths tickled and danced around each other, before finally, mercifully, Jowan kissed him, just as the blue light went out.  

 It lasted only a few seconds, and it was more gentle than even the breeze, but it was perfect.  When Jowan pulled away, Alim could feel the shockwaves of electric tension resonating on the tip of his tongue.  Before he could over-think exactly what was happening, Alim launched himself forward into a deeper kiss. He had thought about this so often, wondered how Jowan tasted too many times to hesitate now. 

"I...was never...sure...you wanted this."  Alim said between kisses, the words stifled by heavy breaths. 

"Since...I met you...l always did."  Admitting it out loud somehow made it more real, more intense, and the harder and deeper Alim kissed him.  

"This is...crazy." 

"Alim...I think...we should...stop talking."   

"Right...you're right."  He smiled crookedly, inviting the awkward _click_ of tooth on tooth.  A few hurried apologies later, and Jowan was pushing on Alim's chest, forcing him down into the sand.  He swung a leg over Alim's hips, straddling him.  Jowan's tongue plunged deeper into his mouth as he crouched over Alim, pinning him beneath his weight.  Alim threw his arms around Jowan's neck, his hands tangling in his thick, black hair.  The feel of his tongue circling Jowan's, the taste of it, was dizzying.  Just as Alim relaxed, silently pleading for Jowan to explore his mouth, he torturously pulled off, and shifted his focus to Alim's lithe neck.   

"Hnng--Jowan."  His name slipped from his lips, begging for more.  Jowan diligently obliged, nibbling and caressing, enjoying the feeling of Alim squirming beneath him. He sucked his skin between his teeth, eliciting a sharp breath inward, and a whimper that sent tingles down Jowan's spine.  Alim couldn't take it anymore, he needed control.  He spun, twisting and wrestling until he was the one sitting on Jowan's hips.  In that moment, he felt it; hard and bulging, Jowan's erection was pushing into his perineum.  The sensation, despite being dulled by layers of robes and undergarments, was more incendiary than fire to a grease spell.  It ignited in Alim a passion like he'd only ever felt when working difficult magic.  He leaned forward, hands in the sand, and rocked his hips back and forth.  Jowan groaned, curling his hands around Alim's waist to steady the motion.  Alim craved even more as he watched Jowan's face contort and then relax with waves of pleasure. His own erection drove him to shift his weight, resting his chest against Jowan's, to better grind their bulges together. 

 

And then...  

"Well, well," The sharp words cracked through the air like a bolt of lightning. "Look what we have 'ere."    Alim jumped off of Jowan, and whipped around to see who had spoken.  There, towering over them, was one of the older templars, Ingus.  He was short and stocky, not unlike a Dwarf.  A short beard coated his neck and face, and steel grey hair sat in tight curls on top of his head.  He was in full armor, and advancing toward them quickly.  The boys scrambled to their feet.  "If it isn't my favorite little bastard."  He smiled at Alim, a tooth missing right in front.  "And you?  You're the Tranquil-in-Training, if I'm not mistaken?" 

"Ingus," Alim said, ice in his voice. 

"That's _Ser_ Ingus to you, boy."  His upper lip curled into a snarl.  "And you'd do well to remember your manners out 'ere, seein' as how I seem to have caught you fellows in a, what do they call it?   _Compromising_ position?  Yeh, that's it." 

Jowan could feel his face flushing, and he bowed his head. 

"We'll come back inside, come on, Jowan."  Alim made a move toward the tower.  He was well aware of the danger this man posed to them.  Ingus was certainly not the brightest templar that the Chantry ever hatched, but he might be the cruelest.  

"Ah, ah, ah, not so fast," he had one hand on the hilt of his sword.  "You rotten mages think you're so high. 'Specially you."  He cocked his head at Alim.  "Just traipse around the grounds like you own the fuckin' place."  He was swaying, clearly off balance.  "If I had my way we'd take your heads off the moment you showed signs of magic.  Safer that way." 

"Safer for who exactly, I wonder."  Alim said. 

"You watch your tone, elf.  I'll not be talked to like that by a bleedin' animal.  S'all your folk are.  Stinking animals."  He chuckled.  From even a few feet away, his breath reeked of ale.  "Lucky thing you lot seem to take orders well.  They say there's nothing more valuable than a well trained elf.  Just like dogs, they are, though I expect dogs smell a bit better."  He chided, looking at Jowan as though he expected him to laugh at his clever jab. 

"Leave him alone."  Jowan's arms hung by his sides, but his fists were clenched and shaking. 

Ingus let out a bray of mocking laughter.  "Or _what_?  You'll suck _my_ cock too, perhaps?"  He sauntered over to where Jowan stood.  Menacingly, he placed a hand around Jowan's neck and began to squeeze.  "You'd like that, wouldn't you?  My thick cock buried deep inside ya?"  Jowan looked away.  Ingus, chortled, victorious. "You even look at me wrong and I'll have you made Tranquil by morning."  He squeezed harder, and Jowan's eyes grew wide with terrror.  "Fuck's sake, I might just put in the order for the Rite anyhow.  Serves you both right for comin' out 'ere to carry on like that, fuckin' degenerates, you are."  He relinquished his hold on Jowan's throat.  "Perverts," he snarled, and spat in Jowan's face. 

"Enough!"  Alim yelled.  His voice echoed around the rocky hills of the island.  "I told you we'll go back inside.  We're leaving." 

"How many times I gotta tell ya, boy?"  He surged toward Alim, grabbing his ponytail of braids with his right hand, and striking him hard with his chainmail-covered left.  Alim cried out as he fell to his knees, kept from collapsing only by the fist still pulling on his hair.  "Show some damned respect when you're talking to me!"  He growled.  The blow hurt badly, and Alim covered his face, hoping the pressure of his palm would muffle the pain on his cheek. 

"Jowan, run!"  Alim shrieked. Jowan peeled away at a sprint, his thin legs pumping hard and kicking up sprays of sand.   

"Oh, no you don't!" Dropping his hold on Alim's hair, he drew his sword, a long, mean blade glinting silver in the darkness, and took after Jowan in pursuit. 

"Stop!"  Alim scrambled to his feet as the adrenaline flooded his veins.  Could Jowan outrun Ingus?  Jowan wasn't athletic, but Ingus was wearing the Templar armor, which was ungainly at best. If he kept that pace, he could probably-- 

Jowan stumbled, or his robes were caught.  He fell.  Ingus was rapidly closing the distance between them, sure-footed despite his drunken state.  His longsword was raised, poised as if ready to strike.   

"No, no, no," Alim breathed.  His feet had started moving before his mind had fully registered what he was going to do.  

  _Terrible power is still power._   

Ingus was almost upon Jowan now.  "Please!  I'm sorry!"  Jowan screamed. 

_...you won't be nearly so helpless the next time the weather changes._

"I'll say you turned.  You were an abomination.  You attacked me." Ingus raised his sword, his eyes were narrow black slits.  "No one will miss one apprentice." 

_Power is power._

His blade began to drop. 

"NO!"  Alim's hands erupted in an enormous bolt of white light that zoomed toward Ingus, blasting him clean off his feet.  As the Templar crumpled, there was the sickening thud of bone on rock, and the hiss of air escaping his lungs.   

Alim hurried to his friend, extending a hand, and helping him back to his feet.  They both looked down at Ingus. "Is he...?"  Jowan asked. 

Alim knelt down beside Ingus, placing two fingers on the exposed flesh of his neck.  There it was.  The gentle thrumming pulse against the skin. "Nope.  Disappointed?"   

"Very, if I'm honest." Jowan huffed. They were both breathing heavy. "What do we do now?" 

"Go back inside and get Irving, tell him Ingus dragged us out here to attack us," he added quickly. "He'll believe you, but I can't lie to save my life. I'll stay and clean up here, a disorientation curse might work. That and the ale should be enough to fog up his memories." 

"Alright, be careful." 

"You too." 

Alim squatted on the balls of his feet, and positioned two hands by Ingus' temples.  He concentrated.  Thin ribbons of yellow light materialized between his palms and Ingus' skull, twisting and writhing like worms.  

Just a moment more, and this should all be over.    

Ingus' eyes shot open.   There was no time to react.  Alim gasped, losing his concentration on the spell, the golden energy rippling away into the darkness.  Ingus' hand went straight for his throat, clenching down hard on Alim's windpipe.  "You filthy knife ear," he barked.  "You DARE use your magic on me!? You _DARE_ to challenge my authority as a templar!?"  Alim wanted to scream, but his cries were crushed under the unbearable pressure on his neck. He tried to stand, to pull away, but with his other hand, Ingus forced him down and on his back.  His eyes watered and began to dim.  He pried at the large, mailed hands around him, but what strength he had left was no match for Ingus.  Frantically, he reached for a nearby stone.   _SMACK_. Ingus, reeling from the shock to his skull, loosened his grip and icy air filled Alim's burning lungs.  Alim wracked by hacking coughs, crawled away, desperately, his chest heaving.  He had to get to Irving.

 

 "Not so fast, elf.  Come 'ere!"  Ingus had a hold of his ankle, and dragged him backwards as though he weighed no more than a sack of flour.   

"Let _go_ of me!"  Alim shouted.  He called on his mana again.  His hands began to crackle with electricity.  With a yell of fury, white hot tendrils of lightning burst forth in a tremendous display of sparkling light, knocking Ingus back several feet.  A spell that powerful would've knocked any normal man on his laurels, and yet with the templar's lyrium enhanced resistance to magic, Ingus plowed through.  His cold, metallic hand emerged from the stream of lightning, and latched like a vice onto Alim's wrist.  Almost immediately, Alim felt his power waning.  The shock spell grew weaker, like a faucet losing water pressure, until only a few purple sparks fell unenthusiastically to the ground.   

"You asked for it."  Ingus grunted.   His eyes narrowed as he focused.  As if the very blood within him was freezing, a chill colder than ice spread from where Ingus held him, down his arm, and into his racing heart.  His muscles and joints began to stiffen with the frost in his veins, and his strength failed him. He could no longer feel the constant buzz of mana within him.   Cold sweat streaming down his brow and on his back, Alim looked into the black eyes, each one a dark abyss, infinte and focused. He could feel his heartbeat slowing, it was becoming more difficult to breathe.  Alim managed one last futile push on Ingus' armor before he collapsed...


End file.
